“I wish I could master a fake accent,” the woman said, flattening her mouth in a little grimace. He glanced at her body; she was all in black—loose sweater, leggings, and ballet shoes. She had big, shapely legs that tapered abruptly to delicate ankles and small feet. She looked at him from the side of her painted eyes and asked, “Are you from Dublin?”

“Yes,” he answered.

“Lucky,” she said.

“You like it here?” She thought it through for a moment.

“Yeah.”

“How long are you here for?” he asked.

“We leave tomorrow,” she said. “I’m here with my parents and my brother.”

“Did you drive around the countryside?” he asked.

“No, we just stayed in Dublin. It’s a sort of rest cure.”

“For who?”

“For me,” she said.

“Oh,” he said. And then, grabbing for it: “What’ve you got?”

“I’m sort of getting better…” she said. There was a long pause. Suddenly, Ciaran needed to find out who this person was.

“Would you like to—take a walk?” he asked. She hesitated.

“Just a few blocks. In broad daylight. To see the city.”

“Sure,” she said.

He paid for her bill and his own, and they walked out of the dim pub, into the glare.

They walked along a canal, the water shivering, silvery.

“What do you do?” she asked.

“I’m a novelist,” he said.

“Wow,” she said.

“You?”

“I work in a pet store in Cincinnati,” she said, sneering.

He looked over at her again, imagining her with a hamster curled on her chest. Suddenly, he had her placed, he knew her American type; nerdy, angry, compulsively wisecracking, often Goth girls who are inevitably chubby and look perfect behind the counters in pet stores, record stores, clothing stores—any service job suits them. They are intelligent but without self-confidence. All interest fled him.

“My daughter has a turtle,” he said. “I bought it in a pet store. I found the place a little depressing, to be honest.”

“There are very few people who actually love animals,” she said. “Most people turn animals into people, little people they can control, who won’t hurt them because they depend on them for food. It’s pathetic.” Her darkly painted mouth, Ciaran noticed, was defined by two sharp points, a cupid’s bow.

“I won’t be buying you a pet, in that case,” he said. She looked at him sharply, as if he had said something startling.

“No,” she whispered, a slow smile creeping across her face.

They walked along the docks and looked out at the big boats.

“Where’s your family now?” he asked.

“They’re at the National Museum,” she said. “They think I’m getting a facial.”

“And why aren’t you getting a facial?” Ciaran asked.

“I don’t believe in them,” she said.